Archive for July, 2008
blame me
Jesus said, “You’re asking the wrong question. You’re looking for someone to blame. There is no such cause-effect here. Look instead for what God can do.”
~ John 9 msg
I heard the voice clearly, but not audibly. Distinctly, but not with my ears. Heard it like I’ve heard so many of the truest things. That was this morning.
* * * * *
Two years ago, I began a journey of forgiveness, forgiveness mostly toward myself, but forgiveness toward others, too. Because there is so much to forgive. Big and small. And we do others and ourselves a gigantic disservice when we sweep grievances and pain and wounds under the rug, pretending that they didn’t happen while passive-aggressively punishing the offender. When we fail to forgive, we minimize the power of redemption.
So forgiveness is necessary. It is lifeblood. And it is a kind of death. A death to our proud, impostor selves. And, as such, it is the hardest thing we do. It just costs so damn much. Because we have been hurt. Because someone should pay. Because forgiveness means letting our pain-causer off the hook and bearing the cost of their debt.
That’s why it’s taken me two years to journey through the hills and mostly valleys of forgiveness. That’s why it will take me the remainder of my natural life to learn the postures of pardon, the ways of grace, the manners of mercy.
But I had a breakthrough. It came when I heard, when I listened. It came because there has been much to forgive – and be forgiven for – in recent days.
I don’t know how you feel about how the Holy Spirit “speaks” to you. For me, it’s something like a light that illuminates my heart and a truth that renews my mind. Like someone whispering reality into ears that mostly hear falsehood.
That whispering is what happened this morning as I asked God to show me how to forgive – how to forgive others and myself. Because we all need forgiveness.
I was telling Him how I’ve run out of techniques and strategies for forgiveness. I was crying out about how I don’t want to be angry and bitter at all the offenses anymore. I was remembering all the parables and words of Jesus, but it didn’t help. I was at the end of my frayed forgiveness rope.
Then…
Blame Me.
I was startled by the starkness of these two words that invaded my heart. Startled to silence.
You need someone to blame for it. For all of it. Blame Me.
I stopped in my tracks, inhaled a huge gulp of Williamson County air, and let Truth’s breath wash over me. And then I saw it, something in my mind’s eye. It was the blame, all of it, ugly and deadly. My blame. Their blame. Nailed and covered and finished on a bloody cross.
And I think I forgave today.
3 Commentsgray matters
I often don’t have too much trouble admitting that I’ve got it wrong. It’s become easier these days, as black-and-white, all-or-nothing scales fall from my eyes to reveal a beautiful world of gray. All sorts of possibilities wait for me in the gray, one of which is freedom. Refreshing freedom. Freedom in discovering that there are countless non-essential type matters to which several “right” answers may be found.
It’s just ironic that one of the people who showed that to me was Greg Boyd. If you had known me eight years ago, you would know that I despised Greg Boyd. I didn’t know him; I only knew what I had heard about him through other bullheaded college co-eds like myself. It was all “Greg Boyd is a heretic” and “Did you know Greg Boyd doesn’t think God is sovereign?”
As I stood my unreasonable ground firmly in the Calvinist, T.U.L.I.P.-sniffing camp, I lashed out at those who aligned themselves with Boyd and his teaching. Having very little clue as to what his true convictions were, I smeared his name with friends and laughed with those who feigned to know something about his beliefs.
Then, a couple years ago, Boyd’s name came across my path. I think it started with his book, Letters From a Skeptic, three-years-worth of correspondence between Boyd and his unbelieving father. Not long after, I heard Boyd teach at Mars Hill Bible Church in Grand Rapids, Mich. His teaching was vibrant, full of love, and overflowing with passion for God. Finally, I stumbled on an article that revealed more about Boyd’s heart for God and for others.
Today, I sit here halfway through my first podcast from Woodland Hills Church in Minnesota, where Boyd pastors. He is a loose cannon; his ADD-ness making him hard to follow at times, his speed-talk hilarious as he trips over words to get everything in his brain past his lips, his intelligence refreshing as it flows out tempered with compassion.
And I was wrong.
Wrong about Greg Boyd. Wrong about Calvinism and Arminianism (which I will avoid discussing altogether for the rest of my life…something to do with resounding gongs and clanging cymbals). Wrong about so many things I always thought were utterly indisputable and solidly concrete. In fact, it is concrete that has finally been broken up, jackhammer-style, in my heart in recent days. Thanks, in part, to Greg Boyd.
I mean, how can I dispute Boyd when he says this:
By definition you can only call ‘Christian’ what looks like Jesus. That’s what the word ‘Christian’ means. Christ-like. And since Jesus never voted and never weighed in on those issues, you can’t call your particular opinion about how we should weigh on those issues or if we should weigh on those issues the ‘Christian’ way to weigh on those issues.
Love the unloveable. That is Christian because Jesus did that.
Forgive people really quick. That’s Christian because Jesus did that and He told us to do the same.
Love your enemies, turn the other cheek, don’t engage in violence. That’s Christian because Jesus did that.
Don’t judge sinners, don’t look down on others. That’s Christian because Jesus did that.
Befriend people that society has walls against you befriending, reach out across racial lines. That’s Christian because Jesus did that.
Feed the hungry, care about the homeless, visit people in prison, serve drug addicts, give generously to the poor, heal the sick, free people from demonic oppression.
Proclaim the good news to everybody. That’s Christian because Jesus did that.
That is Christian. That is the Kingdom. But what you think ‘Caesar’ should do, or who’s going to run what, or what policy you think should be placed: these undoubtedly are right and smart. But they are not Christian. So don’t give your position more clout by attaching His name to it. And don’t pay a whole lot of attention to folks who do that.
I’m glad I was mistaken about Greg Boyd. I’m glad I’ve given myself permission to hear all kinds of opinions on all sorts of things, opinions I’m right and wrong about. I’m glad about so many old lies unweaved, untangled. It’s refreshing out here in the gray.
1 Commentthe whoosh
I flew around the first 90-degree curve, my heart racing ahead of me right out of my chest. As I continued down the slope with added momentum, I couldn’t believe I was still vertical. But I didn’t have time to celebrate. Within seconds I was upon it: the second 90-degree curve.
I let out an audible whimper, certain of my utter demise. I flailed a bit and did the worst thing I could have done, which was to straighten up and stiffen my legs. I reached my hands out to grab for something, but there was nothing other than hot asphalt.
But I wouldn’t need the concrete to stop my fall. Even with poor form and eyes clamped shut, I felt the victorious whoosh of summer air on my face as I squeaked around the treacherous bend and slowed eventually to a near-halt. After several strides I caught up with my heart, which I placed gently back in my chest, and roller-bladed my way around the soccer fields.
That was kind of fun, I thought once I was safe on level, uncurvy ground. But I’ll never go on that part of the trail again.
It was my first time rollerblading alone and Lord only knows why in my first five minutes I took on a slope that would nearly end my life. I was nervous enough about the flat trails where a twig could send me sprawling. Who would help me if I fell? What if I came upon another 90-degree turn and didn’t fare so well? What if I couldn’t stop and I hit the ground rolling and my cell phone flew out of my hand into the stream bed and I tripped over a tree root and landed under the brush, unconscious, and no one found me for days except the squirrels bearing nuts and berries in their cheeks?
I was thinking about this as I wheeled over smooth pavement sandwiched between soft grasses (just right for falling). And I was thinking about that fear thing again and how it conquers me so many times. And I was still thinking about that when I started going downhill again, ever so slightly. But this time there was no curve. Just a straight, empty pathway.
After an extra stride or two, I crouched low, lifted my head and felt the whoosh wash over my skin. It was glorious. Really something. The whoosh. So glorious, in fact, that I began entertaining thoughts of revisiting my twisty speck of path, of feeling the surge of air and rush of wind.
Maybe next time, I decided as I thought about the risk of tree roots and zig-zagging trails and falling down and squirrels with berries. Because the whoosh is always worth the risk. Always.
1 Commentthat smells good
That smells good, I thought to myself every time I walked past the man smoking a cigar every Monday, Wednesday and Friday outside the office building where I worked over ten years ago. He would smoke at lunchtime in the shade of the rain shelter and I looked forward to the sweet smokiness wafting from the corner where he stood deep in thought and gazing at passing cars on Jefferson street.
I’ve always liked the smell of cigars. Just last week, I roller-bladed past a man who was strolling along the trail at a nearby park. He had a tall walking stick in his right hand, a half-finished cigar almost hidden in his left hand.
“That smells good,” I said as I rolled past him.
He laughed. “Wife makes me take it out of the house.”
I nodded and waved at him, hoping that I could double back in time to pass him on my return trek down the path.
It’s funny. For as much as I love the smell of cigars it has never occurred to me to try one. To exhale my own fragrant wisps into the air for some passerby to enjoy. And I started thinking, “Why don’t I try a cigar?”
I pondered my flimsy, false answers to this question. Answers like, girls don’t do that sort of thing and I could never do that. But I still hadn’t answered the bigger questions: “Why avoid cigars like they’re the plague? Why avoid so many things that seem risky or foreign?”
Risky. That was the word. I had hit upon it. My answer. I could easily state the merits of cigar smoking, predominantly the aromatic glow of tobacco and ash. But after that I would immediately go to fear.
“What if I become addicted?”
“What if I get cancer?”
“What if I inhale?”
“You’re not going to become addicted,” Jason said as we sat on a park bench a few nights ago. “It’s not possible.”
“Well, what about…” I started to ask.
“And you’re not going to get cancer. You inhale more cancerous toxins standing on a street corner for five minutes than you do from smoking a thousand cigars.”
“But what if I…”
“If you inhale, you’ll cough. And then you won’t do it again.”
It’s not like I’ve been thinking incessantly about cigar smoking for the sum of my natural life. It’s just that so many times it’s fear – and only fear – that keeps me from enjoying the little exhilarations, the unfamiliarities, the sweet aromas that make life slightly more delightful. And I have been thinking about that a lot lately. About how fear has made me a late-bloomer and a misser-outer for too long. Yes, there is a time for caution, for care, for saying no. But isn’t there also a time for delight, for airy-ness, for throwing off so much fretting?
Isn’t there a time for cigars?
“That smells good,” I said to Jason as I blew a plume of smoke over our heads. It came from my Oliva Serie O Petit Perfecto. And it was perfecto – the flickering stars, the feathery clouds, the occasional puffs. Suddenly that dangerous, horrible thing I’d feared (and loved) became the modest backdrop to a moment that might not have otherwise been.
Jason and I stayed at the park almost two hours – long past dark – sharing and hearing, sitting still and learning the katydids’ rhythm as we exhaled mellow smoke. And it was good. Very good. Not even a bit dangerous.
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